Old Time Rock ‘n’ Roll

You won’t find the fountain of youth at a show by your favorite band of yore.

By Dale Dudley

Published: October 2, 2012

Recently, I found myself at a concert by a band that I loved in high school. Two of the guys I grew up with came to town, and we made a night of it. We laughed, drank and high-fived each other whenever we recognized a song. But somewhere in the middle of the night, I let out a “meh.” I didn’t say anything at the time, but now, months later, I have to say, that night just made me feel old.

I was 14 when my sister and her husband took me to my first concert: a show from milquetoast ballad singer Anne Murray. They were both crazy about religion at the time, and to them this was rock ‘n’ roll. The next day, I mentioned the concert to my schoolmates—and through the taunting I quickly learned how wrong my sister was. Churches had a firm grip on what went down in Tyler, Texas, in the ’70s. You couldn’t buy booze, and you weren’t supposed to listen to rock ‘n’ roll. All of the radio stations were either country, easy listening or easy rock. In Tyler, a Paul McCartney ballad was about as heavy as it got. But then I got to high school.

It was that first year at Robert E. Lee High that I heard some of the older, cooler kids talking about The Zoo and Q102. These were the Dallas album rock radio stations. Dallas was only 100 miles away, but it might as well have been 1,000, because you couldn’t hear that music in south Tyler. But after a few parties east of town, where you could catch the stations on a good night, word had filtered down about a happening in rock ‘n’ roll. Something called the Texxas Jam was coming to the Cotton Bowl, and teens all over town were hatching plans to try and attend.

I drove a little motorcycle that would never make it to Dallas. And since my daddy was into Merle Haggard, there was no chance he was taking me to Dallas to see an all-day “hippie” show. I had to wait until later that summer to hear all the tales of rebelliousness from those who went. Aerosmith, Ted Nugent, Van Halen, Heart and Journey were all at the same show! I immediately ran out and bought 8-track tapes of those bands and would drive around in my mother’s Chevy Malibu with the music blaring, imagining myself anywhere other than the buckle of the Bible belt.

All those rebel rockers were my heroes. They gave outlandish interviews that opened my eyes to the puritan restraints that I grew up with. It was hearing those bands that made me question religion, politics and everything I thought I knew about girls. There were no rules and no assigned seats. You stood in line to get tickets, and if you really loved the band you camped out. These days, a pair of tickets to one of those concerts is at least $100 a pop. When they go on sale, you get excited for as long as it takes for you to run to the computer in your underwear to buy them online. Rarely is there an opening band, because no one wants to pay them and the headliner doesn’t want to be upstaged. If you’re wondering whether your favorite song will be sung, look no further than Google, where you can read the set list from the show the night before.

Often times, the singer of your classic rock favorite is someone younger than anyone else in the band. Either the original guy left or died—or he can’t hit the high notes anymore. That night out with my friends, the lead guitarist came out wearing cutoffs and a knee brace. And the lead singer kept doing a double fist pump in the air that made him look like he was waving a cane at the crowd. I thought at one point he was singing, “Hey you! Get off of my lawn!”

Steven Tyler still wears the same outlandish clothing on American Idol, but now it makes him look like an old woman who stopped by on her way to church. Instead of great guitar riffs from Ted Nugent, we have him telling us how to vote and screaming that someone is stealing his guns. And the guys in Van Halen can’t seem to get along with each other long enough to make it halfway through their tour.

During the encore of the show, I was thinking a pillow sounded better than the after-show drinks. I think I’m just still bitter that I never got to go to that original Texxas Jam, so parents, take your teenagers to ACL Fest. Let them catch Gotye whilst he can still hit the high notes. Let them see Jack White before he needs a walker. Take in Florence while she still has a Machine. If anyone needs me, I’ll be home taking a nap.